I do not always want to show you or talk about the eddying of time, the way it swirls around and comes back upon itself, the way it swims down its own throat, and yet, that is always what I am trying to figure out how to represent, because time is not linear and we do not have comprehensible words for this and although our stories rarely address it directly, it is basically what they embody, if we did not have stories, we would not have the past standing on the path ahead of us and also the future couldn't whip its crushing tail around our necks. I am fairly certain the future's stories are always false. Maybe all stories are false, even those we tell that we say are true. If so, if they are all false, then they are also all true. And perhaps it is in this space, I call it zero space, where time swirls and eddies, there is nothing that goes before and there is nothing that follows, and this is just one reason why I had difficulty writing novels, but never poetry, for poetry is born and thrives in zero space and although it is true that words love linearity, it is also true that— Well, there is so much that is also true, I do not think I should begin that catalog, for I do not know that there would be an end to it, just as there is not a beginning.